


Marching On

by PengyChan



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Coco Locos Angst Off 2018, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 15:19:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15866289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: The Final Death comes for everyone, eventually. Héctor knows it better than most; he came within moments of being forgotten, a very long time ago. He’d thought it was the worst feeling he could possibly experience in his afterlife, but he had been wrong.He hadn’t counted on having to watch his family fade around him, one by one.He hadn’t counted on finding himself alone again.





	Marching On

**Author's Note:**

> This is an entry for the Coco Locos server's Angst Off. The prompt: “They’re gone. It’s just me.”
> 
> I apologize for everything, but the show must go on.

Time marches on.

It is one of the most basic rules of the universe, in life and death. Time marches on, family lines get muddled and end - they can last a long time, their blood keeps running in the veins of the living,  but in the end names are just names and stories are just stories - and memories are lost.

It happens to everyone, eventually. Héctor knows it better than most; he came within moments of being forgotten, a very long time ago. He’d thought it was the worst feeling he could possibly experience in his afterlife, but he had been wrong.

He hadn’t counted on having to watch his family fade around him, one by one.

He hadn’t counted on finding himself alone again.

His bones are almost as yellow as they used to be, now, and the energy holding them together almost as faint. But this time he's glad, it gives him hope. There is no family for him to visit on the other side of the bridge; they are all in whatever oblivion is to be found beyond the Final Death, and he cannot force his way through that.

He can do nothing but to wait, and keep marching on as time does, in the hope that he may see them again.

And he’s been waiting for _so_ long.

* * *

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! This is all my fault!”

“No, Miguel, no. It happens to everyone.”

“But I… I could have written more songs about her! About all of you! I could have talked more about you, I could have--”

“Oh, Migueli-ti-ti-ti-to, you did all you could, and it worked. We’ve been here _centuries,_ how many families can say that?”

Miguel closed his eyes and leaned into the touch on his cheek, choking back a sob. He had lived to an old age, but now he looked so much like the desperate child who first called him Papá Héctor a very, very long time ago.

“Tía Rosita,” he managed, and she smiled a little despite the golden shimmers growing more and more frequent. In the crowded room - so many people, so much _family,_ so many of them born after Miguel passed away - there wasn’t a single pair of dry eyes. Somewhere on his left, Victoria and Elena were leaning against each other; holding onto Coco, Julio was sobbing like a child.

He was the last one to bid farewell to his sister, and didn’t let go until that final golden shimmer, until Rosita faded in a cloud of golden dust, still smiling up at him and trying to soothe him to her last breath.

“Typical Rosita,” Imelda had muttered later, a very weak smile on her lips, and Héctor had made an effort to smile back - only that his gaze had fallen behind her, to where Óscar and Felipe stood, talking quietly to each other. They looked tired, and the sense of alarm had caused Héctor to look around the room, to the rest of their family. He had truly seen, for the first time, that almost none of them had bones as white as his own had become; he’d looked down and even Imelda’s bones, though still white, seemed just a shade more yellow than they had been.

So were Victoria’s, and Coco’s, and Elena’s. They all were remembered, not not all of them so well anymore… and none of them the way _he_ was.

Héctor had known then, with a staggering sense of finality, that Rosita wouldn’t be the last of his family he would see falling to the Final Death.

* * *

Héctor walks with a limp, as he used to - but not barefoot, never that. He’s a Rivera and Riveras do not go barefoot; it is something Imelda was adamant about. He makes his own shoes, and wears them with pride.

_Imelda would be proud._

He walks through familiar streets, passing by unfamiliar faces, and pauses where his home stands. It is run-down and empty; a dilapidated house, and nothing more. Everything and everyone that made it home is long gone and Héctor pauses before the door, stares at the ruined sign of the zapateria, but never enters. He hasn’t in a long time.

If he does, all that he would notice is what isn’t there anymore.

* * *

“You’re tired, that’s all.”

“Héctor…”

“Just rest, sí? I’ll get you another pillow. Or two. Stay in bed this morning.”

“Héctor.”

“I’ll take care of everything - won’t mess up, I promise! Or I’ll try not to. I’m sure Coco can handle the orders and I will--”

Imelda’s hand reached out for him, her grasp weak, but it was enough to nail in where he stood. He’d turned slowly to look at her, resting back on the bed, hair spilling on the pillow and expression grave.

Every fiber of his being begged for her not to speak, but she did.

“I am being forgotten, Héctor.”

Héctor opened his mouth to speak, but not a word came out; a fist seemed to clench around his ribcage, painfully, as his eyes took in her yellowed bones - and as he saw, with the mind’s eye, the moment Óscar and Felipe had faded only a few years earlier, together as they’d been born and died the first time.

Imelda had mourned her brothers for a long time, as they all had, and now it was her turn.

“No,” Héctor heard himself saying. The firmness in his voice was a stark contrast to the turmoil in his head. “I cannot be. You cannot be forgotten.”

“It’s been centuries since I died, Héctor,” Imelda said, very quietly, and pulled him closer. Héctor let her, feeling almost weightless despite the sensation like lead in his chest cavity. “Stay with me for a while.”

Héctor crawled back under the covers, held her tight, and she clung back to him. They had stayed like that for a long time, Héctor’s eyes tightly shut not to see the contrast between the whiteness of his bones and the yellowish color of her own.

“We got a lot of time together, Héctor,” Imelda said, very quietly. Her hand reached for his hair to stroke it, as though he were the one who was fading. “A lot of time with my family. It is more than most ever got. I’ve been very happy.”

Not enough time, Héctor thought desperately, not nearly enough time. “Don’t go,” he choked out.

Imelda sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Héctor said nothing more, and held her tighter. He clung to her every time he could in the days and weeks and months that followed, as she grew weaker and weaker. Her memory took some time to fade but, when it did, she was in Héctor’s arms.

He kept clutching his arms to his rib cage, sobbing harshly and barely aware of Coco’s embrace and Miguel’s voice, for a long time after the golden dust had dispersed. Somewhere in the night sky there was an agonizing roar, and the sudden beating of huge wings.

None of them saw Pepita ever again.

* * *

He didn’t make much of a patriarch, all things considered.

He should have been stronger, like Imelda had been after he'd disappeared. He should have kept the business going because it was what Imelda would have wanted and, for a time, he had. They had, all of the family members still left; dried their tears and kept making shoes after her death, kept marching on.

But time marches on, too, and it takes so much in its stride. It takes _everything._

* * *

“Papá.”

Coco’s hand stretched out for him looked so small, so frail. Héctor sat at her bedside, took it in his, stroked her knuckles. He was reminded of a night a long time ago, when she lay in bed with high fever and he’d stayed up all night, terrified that if he closed his eyes for even a moment his little girl would just stop breathing, despite knowing there was nothing he could do but wait. He found that as unbearable now as he did then. No, it was worse.

This time, there can be only one possible outcome.

“Coco,” he managed, his voice shaking, and reached to stroke her face. “Mija. I’m so sorry.”

She smiled weakly, like Imelda had. “It’s all right, papá. I’m sorry to leave you. I really want to see Julio and my daughters again. And mamá, and the others. You understand, right?”

Of course he did; he spent too long trying to see his daughter one last time - _I can be forgotten then, it won’t matter, please just let me see her one more time_ \- not to understand. He remembers too well how heartbroken Coco was when her husband and daughters were forgotten in the living world, to fade in her arms. Julio, Victoria, Elena… all forgotten.

Even Berto had gone, and Gloria, and Enrique and Luisa. Among his cousins and compared to his sister, Miguel was the one whose bones were whitest; he became a fairly successful musician, and his name was still known in the Land of the Living… as was Héctor’s own.

Coco held on so long because she was part _his_ story, one of music and lies and betrayal that the living simply couldn’t seem to forget… but now her role in the story was clearly slipping out of common knowledge, one of many details people forget as history keeps marching on.

“I understand,” Héctor choked out. “I hope they’re out there somewhere, too.”

“You’ll be joining us someday, papá,” she murmured, and Héctor clung to that hope with all he had. It was the only thing keeping him sane.

“I love you, mija. With all my heart,” he managed, cupping her cheek.

Coco leaned into the touch. “Can you… can you sing our song? One more time?”

Something clawed at the inside of his ribcage, at his throat, and Héctor thought he would never find his voice - until music rang out, and he turned to see Miguel holding the guitar. He looked distraught, but met his gaze and clenched his jaw, and that was it.

If Miguel could play through his grief, then Héctor could damn well sing for his girl. He remembered how painful the throes of the Final Death can get, and he would have given anything to be able to take that upon himself and spare it to Coco - but he could not, and singing to was is the only thing he could do to keep her mind off what was happening to her. So he looked back down at this little Coco, who was not so little anymore, and began singing softly.

_“Remember me, though I have to say goodbye, remember me…”_

The golden shimmer grew more intense, but Coco sang with him, or at least tried to. Her voice became weaker and weaker, and in the end she was gasping out rather than singing; it took all of Héctor’s willpower not to let his own voice break.

_“... Know that... I’m with you the only way that I can be, until you’re… in my arms again… remember--”_

They never got to finish their song. Coco tried to join him on the last note, she truly did, but as soon as she opened her mouth her entire body shimmered one last time, and that was it. Her head fell back on the pillow, and Héctor’s hand suddenly grasped nothing but air.

Whatever happened next, Héctor would never know. He’d remember the overwhelming grief, but nothing of whatever he did or said or cried out. He’d come by later, to Miguel’s arms around him, and never asked. Miguel never said a thing. 

They clung to each other, and marched on.

* * *

“Oh, Héctor! Good to see you. The usual?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Good. So, chorizo and drinks for two… anything else?”

“... A bottle of tequila.”

“Coming up!”

Héctor makes an effort to smile back - it feels like a puppeteer has simply pulled up the corners of his mouth with strings - and waits in silence for his order. When it’s ready he thanks the clerk, takes the bag, and limps away to the small apartment he now calls home. A sad mockery, that. It’s no more a home than his old shack in Shantytown was, so many lifetimes ago.

It is not a long walk, but by the time he gets there he’s so, so tired. Even pushing the door open feels like an awful effort.

“I’m back,” he says. He steps past a few empty bottles, ignores the low growling noises that always greet him - it those mutts haven’t yet learned that he means their owner no harm, it’s their problem - and puts the bag on the table in the middle of the mostly empty, dull room.

“I have bought something to drink. Some dinner, too,” Héctor says, his voice hollow, and he receives no reply but a low groan. He glances towards the couch. “Drank yourself into a stupor again, huh?”

No answer, and the form on the couch shifts a little. Héctor sighs, sits down, and pulls the bottle out of the bag to pour himself a drink.

* * *

Miguel was the last one to go.

By the time he did, Héctor’s own bones were beginning to yellow again - but not quickly enough, damn it, and Miguel was forgotten first.

“I’m sorry to leave you here, Papá Héctor. I’m so sorry.”

Despite the pain in his ribcage, in his head, _everywhere,_ Héctor managed to smile. “Hey, hey. It’s all right, chamaco. You did good.”

“They won’t forget you, and you’re here alone.”

“Miguel--”

“It was my fault, I should have only put your photo up and passed on Mamá Coco’s stories,” he gasped out, shaking with each shimmer. Curled up on the bed next to him, Dante was whining softly and licking his hand. “I shouldn’t have told everyone you wrote those songs. I didn’t think you’d outlast everyone else here. I didn’t think--”

“Miguel,” he pleaded, grasping his hand. Forcing out each word hurt, but he did it anyway. For a moment he found himself in a cenote, trying to reassure a frantic child who only wanted to see his family again. “Listen to me. You did good. I got so much more time with my family than I would have had otherwise. Thanks to you, everyone was remembered for a long time. And every hour with each of you was worth an eternity on my own.”

Miguel stared at him for a few moments, blinking, then he smiled very weakly, resting a hand on Dante’s head. “... You’re looking yellowish yourself.”

Héctor smiled back,  the last smile he’d truly mean. “Yes. I’ll follow you, sooner or later.”

“Still no clue what’s on the other side.”

“You’ll get to find out first, chamaco. And if you see the others, tell them I said hi. Give them the biggest hug from me. Deal?”

Miguel choked out a laugh, and gave him the lopsided grin Héctor had seen so many times on his face. “Deal. If I can have a song before I go.”

“Of course,” Héctor said, and to his eternal regret he went upstairs to fetch his guitar. He was gone half a minute, and it was still too long: there was a gut-wrenching howl, and when he ran back downstairs, into Miguel’s room, there was nothing on the bed but the last shimmers of golden dust, and Dante was gone.

Much like Pepita, he would never be seen again. Realization grasped Héctor there and then like a cold, cold hand.

_They’re gone. It’s just me._

* * *

“This was your fault, you know. I never asked for any fame. I never _wanted_ it. If everyone knows my story, it’s because of you.”

Héctor’s voice rings hollowly through the bare, darkened room. There is a gumble coming from the couch, but it’s hard to tell if Ernesto understood him. Probably not; he’s drunk, as he often is. And even if he weren’t… well, his mind broke a long time ago.

When Héctor found him the streets not long after Miguel had faded - his bones yellowed as his own but not yet forgotten and that made sense, their stories were too entertwined for them to fade from living memory at different times - he was sitting on the ground, staring ahead and mumbling nonsense. He still does; he forgets where he is, _when_ he is. Sometimes he’ll open his eyes, look at him, and ask if they’re late for choir practice, they should be on their way, _Sister Gregoria will flip if we’re late again._

Héctor almost envies him for it. Maybe it would make things easier for him, too, just losing his mind like that. With a sigh, he looks back down at his drink. He didn’t drink tequila for the longest time, after finding out the truth of how he’d died, but he resumed some time after being left entirely alone. Somewhere on the floor, four chihuahuas are fighting over a rag.

“I don’t know why I bothered to pick you up,” Héctor mutters, tossing back the glass of tequila, but of course he does. It was one familiar face, no matter how loathed, when no other was left. Some illogical nostalgia, maybe, of a time when things had been simpler. A hideous parody of what had been, of when they’d been boys, brothers in all but blood and relying on no one but each other.

There is a groan, more shifting, and a mumble. “... Héctor?”

With a  scoff, Héctor pours himself another glass. “No, we’re not late for the choir practice,” he says hollowly. There was a time when he’d have been angry - he was angry for decades - but now it’s been so, so long. Centuries, and putting that poison in his glass took a moment.

“We’re not late for mass,” Héctor drones, putting down the bottle. “Or Sunday school. You’re not trapped under the bell, or chased by a mob. No alebrije is coming to get you, and--”

_“Héctor…!”_

The sudden alarm in Ernesto’s voice and a golden shimmer cause Héctor to trail off, and look up. Ernesto’s body is seizing up and the shimmer is already fading, but it was there; Héctor saw it and so did his alebrijes, who run up to their owner, nudging and whining.

_It’s happening. He’s being forgotten. And if he is, then--_

That’s when the pain strikes, intense and wonderfully _familiar,_ as though he’s being poisoned all over again. He collapses with a grunt, hands reaching to where his stomach would be, shuddering for a few long moments before he regains control. Héctor pulls himself on his knees and looks up to see Ernesto is sitting, looking back at him with wide eyes. For the first time in a long while, they’re not glazed over: they’re clear and alert, and perfectly aware.

_It’s over. It is almost over, for both of us. At long last, they’re forgetting us._

Slowly, Ernesto smiles. “It’s happening,” he says. The relief in his voice matches Héctor’s own.

“Yes,” Héctor mumbles, and finds himself grinning. If there is anything beyond the Final Death, then this the moment of truth. If there _is_ something, he may be with his family again. If there is nothing… then, at least, he gets oblivion. “It’s happening,” he repeats, and laughs. He stands, if shakily, and reaches for the bottle. He feels so happy he could burst. “A drink?”

“Don’t I get to pour the shots?”

There is laughter from both of them, high and unhinged. If anyone heard them, they’d think them crazy and wouldn’t be too far off. Héctor fills two glasses as Ernesto drags himself to the table, slides one across to him, and holds up his own.

“To the Final Death, I guess. Salud,” he snickers, and tosses back the burning liquid. It goes down his non-existent throat, and Héctor shuts his eyes, eagerly awaiting _that_ pain again.

Time marches on, it caught up with him, and it was _about damn time._


End file.
